


The Chimera Within

by Morteamore



Series: Kinktober 2019 [6]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Breeding, Cannibalism, Canon Divergence, F/M, Genetic Engineering, Horror, Hybrids, Kinktober 2019, Masturbation, Monster Handsome Jack (Borderlands), One-Sided Relationship, Tentacle Dick, Tentacles, Transformation, cloning, slight voyuerism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 04:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morteamore/pseuds/Morteamore
Summary: At last, Professor Nakayama has succeeded in cloning the man he always pined for, perhaps renewing his chances of  unrequited love becoming a full blown relationship. But it turns out he may just have screwed up the cloning process, resulting in a monstrous entity hellbent on only two things: breeding and consumption.





	The Chimera Within

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kinktober Prompts: Monster sex, Tentacles, Foodplay: Cannibalism, and Breeding

Professor Nakayama’s dilemma didn’t have anything to do with the usual complications that came with working for the Hyperion Corporation. It didn’t involve business dealings, or interpersonal relationships; budget rejections or manufacturing defects. No, the professor’s problem was of a molecular variety. Or, rather, the lack thereof. As he studied the 3-D rendition of the double helix on his computer, it was evident that the DNA sample was incomplete. Strands were missing entirely. He could only imagine the lack of care it had been extracted with, how inexpert hands had clumsily handled it. 

He couldn’t clone the DNA if it was not an intact specimen. And Professor Nakayama, being a botanist and not a _molecular biologist_ didn’t have a whole lot of experience with these things. Since this was more of a personal project and not a work-related one that he just happened to be using his own personal R&D lab for, Nakayama couldn’t even really cajole another Hyperion scientist into doing his work for him without word getting around. And that was the last thing he wanted happening. If his superiors caught wind of what he was attempting, let alone of what his intentions were, he’d likely be executed.

So Nakayama made do with the kinds of components he was most familiar working with. In the end, it was more of a hodgepodge DNA sample that he created, though enough remained of the original strand that it could still be used as the dominant factors in the cloning process. The components that he had to manually apply, which could possibly affect functions like metabolism, the way energy was stored and distributed, growth, and aging, would suffice in making the end result not much different than the original, if it all managed to come together.

Months passed between the reconstruction of the DNA sample and the gestation of its clone. The results of the experiment proved successful, growing in its vat of nutrient-rich gel until reaching the final stage: a fully developed adult human male. Once the specimen opened his eyes, took his first conscious breath and thrashed and banged at the glass cage, Nakayama was beyond pleased. He would finally have his obsession in arm’s reach, be able to grasp him in the flesh with his own fingers and feel the other man’s strong arms wrapped around his thin frame. He’d listen to his creation’s heart thundering in his chest, and they would share hopes, and dreams, and desires; And maybe, some day in the future, cultivate an intimate romantic bond. Nakayama would allow the other man to lie with him, and they would make slow, sweet love, exploring each other’s bodies with newfangled wonder and gentle caresses, kissing with open mouths and their hearts unbound.

But the clone barely knew how to use his cumbersome limbs, and he couldn’t wrap his vocal chords around language. Not yet. Only careful and consistent retroactive memory therapy was helping him rebuild an identity, the progress only _slightly_ quicker than the milestones he passed in physical capabilities.

Almost three months had gone by since the clone had come into the world by the Professor’s hands, and he was making extraordinary breakthroughs in communications and memory. Nakayama was in a much celebratory mood, making extravagant purchases for the evening’s events that he had planned. The clone had never visited his personal quarters for the duration of his lifespan thus far. The being was holed up in his own private quarters off Hyperion’s grid, monitored solely by the Professor. On nights where the clone was bored or restless, and didn’t feel like utilizing the entertainment available, he would sit and mutter to himself, often so low Nakayama couldn’t make out the words. Other times the clone would crudely masturbate, humping furiously at his own hand until he was shooting thick strands of jism practically across the room. Transfixed, Nakayama couldn’t help but watch these performances in their entirety, eyes fixated on the magnificent cock, mouth as dry as the wastelands until the climax. He figured he’d help the clone out by bringing him some sex toys, but that only seemed to increase his libido, the clone’s hips pistoning against the synthetic sleeves to orgasm sometimes twice in a row or more.

So, on this evening, Nakayama had set his two-seater kitchen table with plates and a cheap bottle of wine, tied rubbers balloons to the chairs with ribbon. On the kitchen counter, a slow cooker was going through the finishing touches on a pot roast. 

“Welcome home, Jack!” Nakayama exclaimed as he punched in the key-code for the door to his quarters and indicated the interior with a flourish.

Heterochromatic eyes shifted in their sockets, sweeping across the small, open space. The quarters were studio style, the kitchen, living room, and bedroom flowing together unbroken.

“Not my home,” the man said after a few heartbeats, and turned to Nakayama, fixing him with an accusing glare.

“Well, no, no, not you’re home at the _moment_,” the Professor replied, a faint grin still plastered on his face. “But it will be. Some day. You and I will live here. Together. Or—or we’ll find a nice place, better than what Hyperion can provide. I’ll give you nothing but the best.”

“Nope,” Jack replied, pronouncing the word with emphasis, and stepped over the threshold, venturing over to the balloons.

Both of Nakayama’s eyebrows were in his hairline. So that Jack regained the nuances and inflections of his former self, the Professor had been subjecting him to a steady diet of Handsome Jack propaganda. ECHO recordings both verbal and visual, books supposedly penned by him but likely ghostwritten, what he’d left in public documentation. Through the clone’s formative weeks, the Professor had gradually ramped up the amount of content, using both subliminal techniques and cognitive-behavioral approaches. Jack had regained _some_ of his persona, though it was still crude and unrefined at this point. 

Still, Nakayama was starting to see Handsome Jack in his creation more and more as time unfurled. The shifts of his expression, the fiery temper, a preference for more sadistic types of humor. It was all there, bobbing somewhere under the surface. He just needed to keep tapping in and coaxing it out.

“What do you mean ‘nope’?” Nakayama asked as he sidled up beside Jack, who was cradling one of the balloons between his hands.

Jack didn’t look at him. Applying pressure, he kept squeezing the helium-filled rubber, more and more air billowing to its top, making it bulge.

“Jack?” 

The Professor went to reach out and grab the clone’s arm. But suddenly the balloon burst, the air ricocheting with the loud bang it caused. Barely startled by it, Jack tilted his head at the pieces of limp rubber in his hand. Then he barked out a laugh and threw them to the ground. 

“What else you got to break, Yama?” 

Jack looked positively feral, eyes alight with intensity, lip curled upward so his teeth were bared. 

It was infuriating to be called that name, after the Professor had worked so hard to break this new Jack from the habits of the former CEO. That man had come so close to remembering his name each time he’d used it, but had only nailed it maybe once. It was a bone of contention, now that Nakayama was granted years to stew over it. He’d planned to train this Jack to be impeccable about the use of his name. 

But Yama had been the easiest word phonetically for the clone to pronounce when he’d been learning to speak. It had unfortunately stuck fast to his vocabulary, and nothing short of negative conditioning was likely going to make it cease.

In his hand, Jack held the bottle of wine, was reading the label. He held it aloft, arm quivering in his tank top as he poised to let it drop. Nakayama, whose hair was already standing on end, made a sound of protest.

There was a loud crash as the glass bottle hit solid flooring, shattering on impact, liquid exploding in all directions along with shards of debris. Afraid of being sliced open, Nakayama jumped back, shrieking. In direct opposition, Jack simply stood in place, watching the alcohol stretch its liquid presence outward and expand. A snort erupted from him, his gaze transfixed.

With a jab of his finger, Nakayama poked his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, smoothing a hand in his beard.

“Come here, Jack.” Though his words warbled, Nakayama’s actions were still bold. He reached for Jack again, tugging on his arm, trying to lure him away from the broken glass. “Come sit. I’ve prepared us dinner. It’s been cooking all day. My grandmother’s recipe. Sit down, here. I’m sure you’re really going to love it.”

“Grandmother….” 

There was an edge to Jack’s voice that was low, dangerous. Coming to a realization, Nakayama waved his hands as if clearing the air.

“Not your’s. She’s dead. Long dead, by your predecessor’s hands. I’m almost certain you’re happy to hear that tidbit of information. Now, sit. Please. The meat, it’s probably tender. Practically falling apart. And there’s tatos. And—and carrots. Root vegetables. That I’ve grown in the lab. Remember the vegetables, Jack? You helped me keep them nourished.”

It seemed to break Jack out of whatever trance he’d been in. Without a word, he collapsed into one of the chairs at the table, picking up the fork his knife there in his fists. He held them upright to either side of his plate, like a child awaiting their parent to slop down food. 

In truth, Nakayama was a bit wary of feeding Jack the meal he’d prepared. Since he’d awakened, Jack had shown quite an aversion to solid foods. At first, the Professor had deemed it a result of the painful process of learning to chew and swallow without risk of choking. There was no question why Jack wanted to avoid that which caused him such grief, especially when there were viable alternatives. IV’s and liquid diets became the norm for him, and he showed, aside from some low blood counts, a mostly healthy reaction to them. Under their influence, he developed just fine, though it was concerning when he didn’t show any desire to ween himself off them. His aversion to solid sustenance remained, and Nakayama had indulged him.

Up until now.

Carrying the roast to the table on a separate platter, Nakayama carved Jack a big slab, slipping it on to his plate along with slices of dark purple carrot and golden chunks of potato. Jack immediately pushed the veggies aside, stabbing his fork deep into the meat. Like squirming prey caught in the razored snares of a trap, the pot roast wriggled limply as he raised it to his lips, sunk his teeth in, wrenched his head until a piece tore away. Mechanically he chewed, each movement precise and controlled. Having not touched the food himself yet, Nakayama watched him with wide eyes, following the bob of his throat when he swallowed.

“You call this grub?” Jack grumbled. “This is overcooked _skag shit_.”

It looked as if someone had suckerpunched the Professor. He gripped the table in both hands, knuckles going white with the pressure.

“But I—I followed the recipe just as it was left to me,” he insisted. “I was absolutely scientific in my seasoning measurements. There’s no reasonable conclusion as to why it would be unappetizing. Surely you must be mistaken.”

With a glare, Jack picked up the tender slab and tossed it at the professor. It smacked him on the head dead center, smearing his bald skull with meat juices, sticking there a moment before flopping to the ground.

The clone tumbled into a cacophony of braying laughter.

Wiping his head clean, the Professor stumbled over his words as they tried to crawl up his throat.

“I can make you something else,” he said in a rush, standing up suddenly. “I have….” He swallowed thickly, fidgeting in place. “I have more _meat_. Maybe you’d like it sauteed in butter with fava beans, or, or broiled? I can do broiled.”

Still captured by his own laughter, a few stray giggles escaped Jack as he said one simple word: “Bloody.”

“Bloody?” The Professor blinked, then seemed to be infused with newfound energy. He clapped his hands together, making Jack wince. “Oh, yes, bloody. _Rare_. It can be rare if you wish, Jack. I can make it—I can make it very, very rare. You will never have meat more deliciously rare than mine.”

“Not rare, dickhole,” Jack corrected, a strange and lethal grin on his face. “Bleeding. _Alive_.”

The professor’s voice was thin, uncertain. “Alive? I don’t understand what you—”

There was no warning as Jack struck. One moment he was sitting relaxed in the chair, and the next he was up, his over-sized hands clutched around the professor’s thin frame. There was a slash of an open mouth, pink gums erupting with small, razored points of bone that jutted out around perfect teeth; fangs crowded against fangs, like some kind of mutated shark beast. The sharp dental structures came down on the crook of Nakayama’s shoulder and neck, piercing the flesh with ease. He screamed, thrashing like the hapless live prey that he had become, thrusting his palms against Jack’s much stronger form. But the clone only held on tighter, arms becoming like iron bands.

When he pulled back, flesh and muscles tearing away from bone along with him, the clone’s bottom jaw was covered in gore. The blood dripped down past his chin, spattering the white material of his tank top, painted in fading streaks along his upper lip and cheeks. He was still chewing, grinning wide as he did so, his blue eye flashing golden as it caught the overhead light. 

“You taste shittier than your cooking,” he remarked.

Nakayama had stopped screaming, his palm coming up to the gaping wound to staunch the blood. His mouth worked, opening and closing like an aquatic animal’s.

“What is—this isn’t supposed to happen! You were perf…your DNA—the sample.” The Professor was blubbering, his words stringing together, jockeying for dominance as they clashed, barely making sense. “The splicing. It had to be in the splicing. With the plantea. The specific—the type of eukrayote. I didn’t screw it up. Not that badly. It was the _gene therapy._”

Having run his hand along his bloody chin, fingers coming away streaked crimson, Jack shoved them into his mouth, sucking with a low, pleased sound.

“Not that it matters, mind you,” he said. Smacking sounds filled the space between them. A long, fat vine of a tongue flickered out for a moment. The fingers came away washed clean. “Meat is meat.”

“_Miseros Morsu Plantea Pandorocan._” Trembling, Nakayama had been reduced to non-sequiturs, the words spun without context. “They must’ve—the species. It must’ve been mixed up with the carnivorous samples from the Sanctuary incident.”

It didn’t matter what the Professor was saying anymore. Jack had tuned him out. His mouth widening, he leaned in, hot breath rasping against Nakayama’s skin.

“Should learn to sort your samples better, Yama,” Jack chastised. “Next time—wait, who am I kidding? There won’t be a next time.”

Darting in, Jack bit down again on an unblemished strip of skin. Hard.

XXX

It was easier to reach the old CEO’s office than the clone had expected. Just as easy to gain access as well. The clone had the keys embedded right in his skin, just a pass of his hand the only weapon he needed against locked doors or employee only restrictions. Hyperion, in the scramble of Handsome Jack’s premature demise, had yet to appoint a clear successor. Everything hung in a tangled nest of confusion and uncertainty. And in the wake of it, Jack was able to slip between the cracks with barely a notice.

Which was good, because by the time he was removing the elements of his disguise he’d strung together from Nakayama’s belongings, he’d gone through some changes. Beneath the layers, just under his skin, bulged the vine-like protrusions, replacing the cords of his muscles with roping strands that moved like liquid. The fingers of one hand had extended, growing twisted and long, dragging the floor with their thickened, featureless lengths. Within their twisting confines, a body lay entangled, blood trail smeared behind it in inconsistent streaks. 

Said body was left on the ground in a crumpled pile, its chest still rising and falling as it gasped for its life. Jack paid no mind to it, letting its blood soak into the carpet. He clambered up the steps, the untouched desk and golden office chair atop it just as pristine as the day his predecessor had likely left it. His interest lay in the computer console built into the desk’s solid surface. Without needing a lesson about its usage, he powered it up, brought to life the holo screen. 

Though he didn’t understand how, he knew one thing to be true: the memories that belonged to Handsome Jack, that Nakayama had been instilling in him day by day, needed little reiteration. In the core of his mind, from what series of experiments and methods had been used to spark his existence, important tidbits had been retained. The memories of Handsome Jack were ultimately there, stitched right into the molecular level of his being. Like some complex, organic computer, they could be accessed at will, as long as he understood what buttons to press and levers to pull.

And the professor, being much a fool, had inadvertently taught him how to conduct such an organic machine.

Pulling up the ECHO contact he was looking for, he waited for the connection to be addressed on the other end. The system hung quivering like a thread pulled too tight, nobody relieving the tension.

Jack was just about to give up and cut his losses, continue his feast of succulent flesh and coppery blood.

But then, startling him, came the, “Who the hell is this calling me at this hour and why are you using my dead goddam boyfriend’s private line?”

There was a long pause where Jack just braced himself against the desk, breathing hard. He’d purposely left the video chat off. By some miracle, the person on the other end didn’t hang up.

“Neeeeeesh,” Jack finally drawled, bloody drool slipping past his lips, spattering the console. “Heyo there, sweetcheeks. Been a long…long time.”

Dead silence. It went on and on.

Finally, “Is that you, Timothy? What the fuck are you trying to play at?”

“No, babe, it’s really me,” Jack breathed, the vines of his fingers twitching as he spread them across the desk. “It’s your boy, Jackie. I’m back, baby. How’s Lynchwood treating you these days?”

A soft giggle escaped Jack’s lips. He choked it back. 

Another long pause.

“Ah, that good, eh?” he finally continued when there was no reply. She hadn’t hung up, though. He knew that much, as he attempted to keep the growl in his voice at bay. “Look, Neesh, I’ve got this problem. And only you can help me deal with it. I just need you to come up to the old office on Helios. So we can….” _Pollinate_, his mind raced ahead to, excitement building in his loins. _Spread the seed_. “Discuss things properly, if you know what I mean. You should still have clearance for the Fast Travel. Whaddya say?”

From the other end of the line, a heavy creaking sound, followed by the sharp click of what could’ve been a gun being cocked and then more silence. For a long while, that’s all he heard. 

“I’ll get there when I get there,” she finally said, voice a deadpan.

The line went dead.

Satisfied, Jack tore his attention away from the console, fixing his sights on the blubbering, bleeding mess on his carpet.

Time to deal with _that_ headache.

XXX

When she walked in, clad in a beat-up duster and a Stetson hat that would have had the former CEO begging on his knees with his tongue lolling out, her revolver was cocked and at the ready. Gun barrel pointed straight out in front of her, her boots clacked against the ground, the roll of carpet doing little to muffle the heavy armor alloys. She walked with cautious purpose, back straight, golden gaze mostly obscured by the rim of her hat.

On Jack’s desk lie Nakayama’s crippled body, mangled but enduring, splattered with dark red gore. One of his arms shook as he reached out in her direction, his mouth gaping open in a silent call for help, blood spilling over his lips. She noticed his hand was missing, severed at the wrist.

Currently, said hand was seized between Jack’s teeth, the rows of his fangs sinking into the meat of the palm with the sickening crunch of bone and tissue. Blood dripped in a steady stream, coating his bare chest, running in rivulets downward. He moaned, the sweet, tender flesh in his mouth sparking shear ecstasy. It was both exquisite and divine; heaven for his palette. As Nakayama’s viscera slid down his gullet, he patted his stomach, hand slipping through the blood there. His palm was then raised to his mouth, tongue swiping it clean, body shuddering.

The gun was suddenly in Jack’s face, his eyes staring down the barrel. Nobody moved, Nisha standing across the desk from him, eyes flashing like lightning. Shadows obscured most of Jack’s features, casting most of his abnormalities in darkness. When he rose, it was apparent that he was completely nude, the desk blocking the view of anything below his bare hips. Nisha lowered her gun and shoved it somewhere under her jacket, made her way around the side of the desk. As she rounded the corner of it, Jack’s arm came up, revealing the mass of writhing vine-tentacles that had woven over his appendage and entwined to form a monstrous hand. The twitching tips of them reached for her, coiling against her clothing, prodding and pushing with eager delight. Allowing them their exploration, she paused for several heartbeats, her own hand finally shooting up, grabbing him by his bloodied jaw. Her nails dug into his cheeks, causing his mouth to gape open, revealing the mass of teeth and squirming tongue within. Twisting his face to either side, she seemed to be looking for something as she examined his smooth, unblemished skin, releasing him when she seemed satisfied enough with the scrutiny. A hand ran through his thick chestnut hair, his urge to bat it away suppressed by the fact it belonged to her.

“I really, honestly don’t know how in the hell they brought your ass back from the dead. But I kind of like this new you, Jack,” she purred, seemingly serious, her eyes darting to his tentacled hand. “Especially with all the blood. Though I could do without the cannibalism kink.”

Elated, Jack smacked his tongue against his lips, the tantalizing flavor of excess blood dancing on his taste buds.

“That’s just part of who I am now, Neesh,” he said, voice thick with the chemistry building between them. “Either love me or leave me.”

She pushed him, then, flat of her palm painted in a healthy coating of blood as he was forced backwards. The backs of his knees hit his golden throne, his ass coming down hard on it. Nisha’s eyes fell to his crotch, the pupils narrowing at the sight there as she got her first eyeful.

Plump and pulsating, a nest of tentacles of various girths and lengths coiled and undulated where Jack’s cock should have been, as if they were sentient creatures. 

“Definitely never seen you with those before.” 

“New addition to my repertoire. The better to make you scream my name, babe.”

Nisha snorted.

“Same old Jack,” she remarked, then added, “I wouldn’t count on it, partner.”

There was the click of a belt buckle. As uncanny as the sight was before her, Nisha seemed to be a slave to her own impatience, unruffled and poised as calmly as ever. Her pants slid down, revealing the purple underwear beneath, a skull in a darker shade emblazoned on the hip.

Same old Nisha as well.

Two of the larger vines attached to where Jack’s genitalia should have been snaked out like reaching hands, eager as they danced against the cloth barrier. One slipped along the inside of her thigh, prodding at the side of her underwear, trying to lift it away enough to worm beneath. There was a sharp ripping sound, the cloth tearing under the strain.

“Guess you’ve finally got the hang of things after all this time,” she remarked, falling into his lap. “For once, I’m not doing all the work. Though I’m not sure if you’re doing any, either.”

Bloody saliva slipped from Jack’s lips as he grinned. His tentacled fingers wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, one slithering away from its brethren to make its way up her shirt. She shrugged out of her duster, letting it fall to the wayside, revealing a chest holster that she wasn’t about to bother to remove. It explained where the revolver had disappeared to. The tentacle made its way to her breast, flickering at it like a tongue, encircling it.

The vine at her groin pushed the tattered underwear away, sliding its smooth form in a long arc against her clit. She sighed, bearing down against it. It eluded her, though, twisting away to stroke along her labia instead. Joined by a companion after a moment, the two dexterous vines worked unanimously to part her lips. 

Jack was eager for the pollination process to begin, the tentacles at his groin writhing and growing more excited, their porous epidermises secreting the necessary lubrications until they were coated and dripping. The largest of the mass erected itself, smaller, thinner vines coalescing around it, squirming like sentient veins. They came together to form a bizarre glans of sorts, almost like the bud of a flower, its fluttering edges reminiscent of petals. 

“That thing better feel a whole lot better than it looks,” Nisha said dryly, studying the organic cock. 

“It’ll feel freakin’ amazing inside you, kitten,” Jack rasped. Somewhere he had found the severed hand again, was gnawing idly at it as if he were a skag with a chew toy. The crackling of bone and cartilage between his fangs was sharp and punctuated by his satisfied groans as he swallowed. “Like fucking a dick made of solid gold. Or a god. Or a golden god.”

Nisha placed a hand on each of his shoulders, careful not to lean in to close for fear of invading the space of his chosen snack and getting chomped on in the process.

“Just shutup and fuck me with your weirdo dick already, Jack.”

The severed hand was tossed aside, Jack wiping any excess crumbs from his lips. The tentacle around her breast coiled tighter, billowing her shirt as it slithered over to the other breast. With his grip on her waist, he pulled her down, closer and closer to the extending shaft of his botanical dick until the bud-like head was dragging softly against her outer lips, teasing her as it traced her entrance. Her breath was quickening, the tacky slickness of her folds telltale of her arousal. The strange glans slipped inside, and he gasped like a man taking his first breath as he sunk in further, feeling her depths conform to his girth and squeeze.

In his state, Jack might as well have been a virgin. Only the memories of Handsome Jack that were hardcoded into his cellular structure were his guides now. But those could not have prepared him for the overwhelming tactile experience of being inside someone, and just how much his unique biology enhanced those sensations. There was no need to thrust. His sentient anatomy did that for him. Even so, each propulsion of his cock sent him into a euphoric state that he could barely tear himself out of before the next wave crashed upon him.

Jack was panting hard, his inhuman parts pulsating inside Nisha with his growing pleasure. It was rising swiftly; too swift for his liking, his viscera aflame with dueling objectives. He found himself torn between wanting to race to the pinnacle, to sow his seed and ensure the initial stirrings of his future generations; the pendulum also swinging for him to reign in it, enjoy the first goddam attempt at sexual relations with his former self’s girlfriend. 

In the end, his biological instincts decided for him. Driving into Nisha until he could no longer be accommodated, the bud of his glans spiraled open, releasing an abundance of clear, viscous semen laden with spores. Body wrought with tremors, he made a strangled sound, his hold on Nisha spasming, making her grunt and growl.

The sheriff glared at him, lips pulled back in a snarl, eyes flashing like some rabid predator’s.

“Are you fucking serious?” she growled out, voice low and furious. “You get yourself killed on me, come back as some hybrid monster thing with enough tentacles to please an orgy. And you _still_ don’t manage to get me off before you blow your own load.” She shook her head, tilting her hat down, obscuring her look of utter contempt. “I was going to wait till I’d at least gotten something out of this. See if it might be worth it keeping you around in the state you’re in. But I see clear as a noonday in the barren wastes what comes next.”

Still in his state of transcendent bliss, Jack was barely aware that Nisha was moving. The grip of his tentacled hand around her had gone slack, easy to manipulate. She rose from his lap, his spent cock flopping out of her in a mess of stringy, gushing fluids that clung between them before breaking. It was hardly a task to maneuver away from him, her stockinged feet barely hitting the floor before, with lightning fast reflexes, she had pulled the revolver from her holster again. 

“Don’t be like this, baby,” Jack said, slumping in the chair, his eyes having trouble staying open. “You’re gonna need me around, now. Trust me.” He laughed and it was thick and clogged, as if he had accumulated too much saliva. “Besides, I can go again. Come back here, let me make you feel real good.”

The tentacled vines of his appendage drooped to the floor, swishing their way towards Nisha’s feet. Her bare heel came down on several of them, crushing them with all her weight, making Jack squeal in agony. 

It would have been better with her armored boots on, but whatever. It was effective. 

“Whatever scumsucking piece of shit you’ve become,” she said, every word paced as if she had all the time in the world, “you sure as hell ain’t my boyfriend.”

Raising the revolver, she aimed down the sight at the gape of his fanged mouth, squeezing the trigger. The shot went off with an echoing bang, the bullet screaming its way into the soft, membranous tissue of his throat, exploding out the other end of his head. Debris splattered the chair behind him, chunks of brain matter and brackish green blood painting the vicinity, some of the backsplash hitting Nisha in a warm spray. She wiped the excess off, gun still smoking as she watched the life drain from the body before her’s eyes and crumple over on itself.

There was the sound of screaming filling the room, high-pitched and akin to squawking, as if someone were torturing some hyper intelligent avian. Nisha spun around, seeing that it was coming from the tortured body lying across Jack’s desk, the man barely still alive.

“My creation!” Nakayama was caterwauling, sputtering as he choked on his own blood. “What have you done? My Jack, my precious Jack. All my research, my _conditioning_. My life’s work! They told me I’d never do it. But I did. And you’ve _ruined_ it all.”

Nisha didn’t even take aim. 

“Guess no lifetime achievement award for you, then.”

The gun went off again, silencing Professor Nakayama’s lament for eternity. Nisha blew on the revolver barrel, holstering it once more.

The sheriff had cleaned herself as adequately as possible and was tugging her pants back up when she heard it; a kind of wet slithering, slapping against the ground, the sound of air slowly being released following suit. She didn’t turn around right away, her back to the golden desk chair. Something drifted against her hip, smooth and without articulation, trying to encircle her waist.

“Gonna take more than a little bulletplay to get rid of me these days, Neesh,” a guttural voice said.

Nisha whipped around just in time to see the tissues of Jack’s flesh twining together, re-knitting themselves like organic sutures where he’d been mortally wounded.

“Don’t worry though, baby. I’ll forgive you for the slip up.” One tentacle raising, it poked tentatively at where Nisha’s abdomen was exposed by the gap of her shirt, stroking there idly. She shoved it away. “After all, you and me? We’re gonna take over the universe. Just as soon as my brood finishes germinating.” 

Jack laughed, then, the sound going on and on, crescendoing at a maniacal point.


End file.
